


Uncanny Valley

by fnowae



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Kinda, M/M, Space AU, hopeful ending maybe ?, petes an astronaut patrick is...you know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-07 09:50:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15216536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fnowae/pseuds/fnowae
Summary: Pete leans back from the console and sighs. On his first year he would have worried those notes were too snarky, but now, almost at year five, he could care less. He knows damn well no one is reading his mission logs anymore anyway. The data he puts in is for the ship computer to store, and it’s not like the thing is making a deep analysis of his tone or anything.





	Uncanny Valley

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been at this for literally months........when will it end......
> 
> Anyways! This is my new favorite thing I’ve ever written. I’d die for it and for patrick. thank you
> 
> (this is probably riddled with editing errors and I apologize but. I’m trying)

_Mission Log 1784_

__

_Ship condition: good_

__

_Pilot condition: good_

__

_Mission progress: 32%_

__

_Next destination: Landing Point PK658O_

__

_Notes: The light above the kitchen area blew before the computer repaired it ten seconds later. That was the most interesting event this year._

Pete leans back from the console and sighs. On his first year he would have worried those notes were too snarky, but now, almost at year five, he could care less. He knows damn well no one is reading his mission logs anymore anyway. The data he puts in is for the ship computer to store, and it’s not like the thing is making a deep analysis of his tone or anything. 

Speaking of which, “Computer,” Pete calls out to the empty room. 

A pale pink light goes on above his console. “Hello, Peter,” a disembodied voice greets him. “It is mission day one thousand seven hundred and eighty four. What can I-“

“Just put something on for dinner, would you?” Pete cuts it off, sighing. Even after years of this, he still can’t listen to the thing talk without feeling weird. If the programmers were going to give his only companion for upwards of fifteen years such a realistic voice, they could’ve at least made it speak in something other than a creepy, mechanical monotone. Pete would kill to hear real vocal emotion again. 

“Yes,” the computer responds, “what would you-“

“I don’t know, you can fabricate any meal imaginable, you pick something,” Pete mutters, trying not to punch the blinking pink light that tells him the computer is forming a response. 

“Peter,” it finally says, “I operate on direct orders.”

Pete groans, leaning back in his chair. “Fine, fine, make...potatoes, I guess.”

The light blinks five times. “There are five hundred thousand and fifty two recipes available containing potatoes. Which would you-“

“Mashed!” Pete yells. “Mashed potatoes, then!”

Four blinks. “There are twenty thousand and-“

“Computer,” Pete interrupts, “shut the fuck up.”

///

Thirty minutes of negotiation later, Pete has a dish of garlic mashed potatoes with a burger, which took most of the thirty minutes to get the computer to make, because apparently the damn thing needed to know how large a lettuce leaf he wanted on it. Pete doesn’t get the point of being able to make any meal “instantly” if it takes so long to get to that instant in the first place. 

“Computer?” Pete says, taking a bite of his burger and setting it down. 

The light goes on. “Hello, Peter,” the computer greets him, as always. “What can I do for you?”

“Isn’t ‘pick anything’ a direct order?” Pete asks, pushing the mashed potatoes around on his plate. They’re good, they always are, he’s just painfully aware they’re not _real_ potatoes. 

The light flashes a couple times and beeps. “I operate on direct, specific orders. I was not programmed with the intent of making decisions for you.”

Pete clenches his jaw. “You repair the ship without me telling you to.”

“I was not programmed with the intent of making specific decisions that have no bearing on your survival.”

Pete sighs, shoving a bite of potatoes into his mouth. “Yeah, yeah, right, okay.”

The pink light beeps, flashes, beeps, and then the computer’s voice asks, “Would it be beneficial to your well being if I chose your meals for you?”

Pete frowns, not expecting that response. “Uh, well...I guess, yeah, it would save time.”

The light blinks slowly, for longer than usual, and then the computer replies, “If the action benefits your well being, it is important for me to take it.”

“Sure,” Pete agrees, shrugging and picking up his burger. “Right.”

It takes him until two hours later to realize the computer has never asked him a question unprompted before. 

///

_Mission Log 1795_

__

_Ship condition: okay_

__

_Pilot condition: good_

__

_Mission progress: 32%_

__

_Next destination: Landing Point PK658O_

__

_Notes: Left front engine blew earlier. Computer repaired it immediately. No harm done. The engine is working better now than it was before._

“Peter.”

Pete blinks, looking up from his log, but of course no one is there. It takes him a second to connect the voice with the computer, and another second to realize why he’s a little worried. The computer doesn’t talk to him unprompted unless it’s an emergency - it had when the engine blew a couple hours before, but in any other situation than those types of things, it waits for a command. 

“Is something wrong?” Pete asks, looking around for some kind of disaster, some fire or something, but nothing appears amiss.

“No,” the computer says, “all repairs from earlier are holding. The engine now works at a faster pace, which may shorten your mission to 5571 days.” Its light blinks for a few seconds before proceeding. “I made you dinner.”

Pete’s eyes flick up to the light, wide and confused. “Sorry, what?”

“Analysis of the past one thousand seven hundred and ninety-four dinners gave you an average dinner time of two point eight seconds past 7:46 pm, pacific standard earth time. That time came, so I made you dinner.”

Pete frowns. “I thought you only operated on direct orders.”

“Eleven days ago you told me to pick anything for your dinner,” the computer says, “and in the past ten days you have requested dinner at earlier than the average time, so I did not get the chance.” There’s another silence punctuated by pulsing pink light, then, again, “I made you dinner.”

Before Pete can turn the odd offer down, the gate under his console that always provides his meals opens and ejects a dish of mashed potatoes and gravy next to what appears to be a turkey leg. 

Before Pete can try to reject the food, the computer says, “Analysis of your meals reveals your favorite food item is potatoes. Sixty-eight percent of your meals contain potatoes. Forty-one percent of those are mashed potatoes. I could find no conclusive data on your favorite protein, so I did as you requested and chose one at random.”

Pete is silent, staring at the food blankly. Finally, he says, “Thank you?”

“I am required to follow your direct orders,” the computer says, and Pete doesn’t argue, even though he knows damn well that eleven days ago the computer used this same logic to explain why it _couldn’t_ pick his dinner for him. 

“Yeah,” Pete says quietly, taking a bite of the turkey. It’s good. “Yeah, I guess you are.”

///

_Mission Log 1841_

__

_Ship condition: great_

__

_Pilot condition: okay_

__

_Mission progress: 33%_

__

_Next destination: Landing Point HG779O_

__

_Notes: Landing Point PK658O wasn’t even a moon, like I was told it would be. It was an asteroid. Absolutely no evidence of any life existing there, ever. Twenty-nine days to next landing point. It had better fucking actually be a moon this time._

The console beeps at him and highlights the word “fucking” in red before deleting it. Pete groans. It never lets him swear. He hates it. 

Pete rolls his eyes when the computer light blinks on above his desk. He’s managed to get at least a little used to the computer talking to him unprompted, even if he still finds it odd. It’s always completely normal stuff too - a warning about needed maintenance, information about their next destination - but Pete’s always had to ask for that before. 

The light stays on, but the computer says nothing. 

“Yes?” Pete finally asks, raising an eyebrow. 

“Would it benefit your well being if the log system had no filter?” the computer asks, which is pretty par for the course - the thing always wants to know what would benefit Pete’s well being nowadays - but still makes no sense when Pete actually thinks about it. 

“Wait, what?” he asks. 

“You consistently try to use expletives in reports, and you always show signs of frustration when you are denied,” the computer explains. “I do not like you being frustrated. Would it benefit you if the log system had no filter?”

Pete looks up to the soft pink light and back down to his console, where the last mission log is still open. 

“Uh,” he says finally, “you don’t - you don’t like it when I’m frustrated?” 

“Perhaps my phrasing was not concise enough,” the computer responds. “I should not have said I did not like it. I am not capable of liking or disliking things. It is only that frustration is not beneficial to this mission, or your well being. Therefore it is to be avoided.”

“Oh,” Pete says, “oh, uh, yeah. I guess.”

“In which case,” the computer continues, “I think it would be beneficial to this mission if the filter was removed.”

Pete looks back to his report, and considers that. He didn’t realize the filter could be removed - he’s _tried_. And no one is going to like it back home if he returns with a log full of “fuck”s. But...it is kind of frustrating to be limited in his expression. 

“Sure,” he finally agrees. “If you can do that.”

The computer beeps a couple times, the light flashes, and his console makes an odd noise, going black before lighting back up again. 

“The filter has been bypassed,” the computer informs him. 

Pete doesn’t necessarily buy it, but he tests it anyway - he adds “fucking” back into his earlier notes. 

He waits a full minute. Nothing happens. The swear stays. 

“Holy shit,” he says, unnecessarily, “thanks.”

Pete is so excited about the ability to swear that he doesn’t hear the computer respond to him, in a voice that, for the first time, could almost have a tone. 

“Actually, Peter,” it says, “I think I don’t like seeing you frustrated after all.”

///

_Mission Log 1847_

__

_Ship condition: excellent_

__

_Pilot condition: good_

__

_Mission progress: 33%_

__

_Next destination: Landing Point HG779O_

__

_Notes: I’ve been up all fucking week analyzing samples from the last landing point for no good reason. There’s nothing there and I fucking know it. The only reason I’m not fucking dead from boredom is the fact I can fucking say fuck now. Fuck._

Pete is asleep, and then he isn’t. 

Something very loud and very high pitched blares in his ear. He groans and rolls over. The second he moves, it stops. 

“Hello, Pete,” the computer’s voice echoes through his mostly empty sad excuse for a bedroom. “You’re awake.”

Pete makes a loud, frustrated noise. “The fuck, computer! Is something wrong?”

“No,” the computer says, “and I apologize for waking you. It’s just that I thought you might want to-“

“ _I_ think I might want to sleep,” Pete complains, huffing. “What the hell is it?”

The computer is silent.

“Computer?” Pete asks again. 

There’s still no response. 

Pete is not going to let himself feel bad for yelling at emotionless computer. He is _not_. It’s probably just offline. 

Except this room’s pink light, right across the room from Pete’s bed, is still on. The computer is still online and active. 

“Computer,” Pete repeats, “I’m - uh, I’m sorry, okay, but I’m tired. What is it?”

The pink light begins to blink, and continues to, and Pete begins to worry, because the computer has never had to process anything for longer than ten seconds before. 

Finally, it says, “There’s a view of a supernova outside your bedroom window. It’s a once in a lifetime experience and would be gone by the time you woke up. I thought you would want to see it.”

Pete blinks. He hadn’t expected...well, okay, he isn’t sure what he’d expected, but the computer has certainly never bothered him about a view before. 

“Oh,” he says. “I guess I would like to see that.”

The computer, again, doesn’t respond. 

“Computer,” Pete says, “please open my blinds?”

The computer doesn’t give the usual “of course, Peter” response that Pete is used to after commands, but the window blinds do slide up, revealing a wide pane of glass through which Pete can see infinite space. And just like the computer had said, there’s a supernova. 

It’s the most breathtaking thing he’s ever seen, and Pete regrets ever being mad at the computer for trying to show it to him. He grins out the window, reminded all at once why he’d been okay with spending over fifteen years on space in the first place. He’d never see stuff like this on earth. 

“Computer,” Pete says after a while, still pressed to the window, eyes wide, “thank you for showing me this.”

There’s a long, painful silence before the computer responds, “Of course, Pete.”

Out of Pete’s field of vision, the pink light blinks once and turns off. 

///

_Mission Log 1848_

__

_Ship condition: great_

__

_Pilot condition: great_

__

_Mission progress: 33%_

__

_Next destination: Landing Point HG779O_

__

_Notes: Computer has been oddly silent all day. I know I haven’t asked for anything, so it shouldn’t have said anything in the first place, but it’s been talking to me without me asking so much lately. I can’t believe I’m actually worried._

There’s only a second between Pete saving the entry and the pink light flicking on. Pete can’t say he’s surprised. 

“Don’t worry about me,” the computer says. 

Pete doesn’t look up, because looking at the light feels like the closest thing to meeting the computer’s eyes. “I’m not worried.”

“I read your report, Pete, I always do,” the computer continues. “I didn’t mean to worry you. I just thought you were mad at me.”

“Huh?” Pete looks quickly up to the mounted blinking light. “Why would I be mad at you?” What he doesn’t ask, but also crosses his mind, is _why would you care?_

“I woke you up when I shouldn’t have,” the computer answers. “And you were upset.”

Pete is surprised. He doesn’t remember the computer ever trying to apologize for something - though there’s a lot it’s been doing lately that Pete’s pretty sure it shouldn’t. “I’m not now, you know,” he says, no longer shocked by the fact he’s reassuring a computer. “I’m glad you woke me up for that. It was beautiful.”

The pink light blinks on and off, on and off. Pete thinks, fleetingly, that the computer never used to need this long to process anything. It’s been taking longer to respond lately, but its responses have also been more...more, well...

“I’m really glad you liked it, but I shouldn’t have woken you up regardless, I don’t know why I did. I’m not supposed to do anything without direct command. But I do. I’m sorry.”

Yeah, more like _that_. 

It feels raw and emotional and _human_ and it occurs to Pete all at once that what he just heard wasn’t the monotone he hates so much at all. He feels like maybe, he should care more about that. 

If Pete was the computer, his light would be blinking right now. A lot. All he can think to say is, “You’re glad?”

He watches the pink light blink on, off, on, off, on, off. 

“Yes,” the computer finally responds, “I am.”

///

_Mission Log 1869_

__

_Ship condition: great_

__

_Pilot condition: good_

__

_Mission progress: 33%_

__

_Next destination: Landing Point HG779O_

__

_Notes: Touchdown at the next landing point tomorrow. I already know I won’t find anything. It’s a moon made of ash! Fucking ash! Why were all my cool stops earlier on?_

“I don’t like HG779O either.”

“Oh?” Pete has stopped trying to care that the computer dislikes things now. He’s stopped trying to care about anything the computer does, really. It doesn’t get him anywhere. And besides, he’s been alone for over five years now. For the first time, he sort of has a friend. 

“I think it’s boring. You’re right,” the computer tells him. It kind of sounds frustrated. Pete’s stopped caring about that kind of thing, too. 

“Yeah, hey, remember the one made of diamonds?” Pete asks, grinning reminiscently. “Why can’t we get another one of those?”

“TF587O?” the computer asks. “The fifth landing, right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Pete agrees, nodding, “it was cool. Really cool.”

Pete is used to the long periods of blinking pink light now. His new theory on the extended processing time is that the computer is learning how to adjust to all the new ways it seems to be able to think. Pete isn’t sure he’d be very fast if he had no clue how to understand emotion, either. And that’s something - Pete’s pretty sure his computer has started experiencing emotion. He can’t claim to really even care. 

“Actually,” the computer finally says, “there’s a planet with gold veins a couple days off course from here.”

Pete breaks into the dumbest fucking grin, because _come on._ “Computer,” he says, “are you actually suggesting we go off course just for a planet that _looks cool_?”

There’s an odd beeping noise, and the pink light blinks rapidly. Pete frowns, but he waits. 

Finally, the computer says, sounding...well, kind of terse, if Pete’s being honest, “Sorry. I’m not supposed to do that.”

“Hey,” Pete says hurriedly. “Hey, wait-“

The pink light flicks itself off. 

///

Pete is almost asleep when he notices the pink light in his room turn on again. He’s immediately completely awake, sitting straight up in bed. 

Pete is scared to start this conversation, and damn, he never thought he’d be afraid to fuck things up with a _computer_ , but finally, the computer speaks first. 

“Pete,” it says, “do I have a name?”

Pete is...a little taken aback. He certainly hadn’t seen that one coming. Something in him had been awaiting a continuation of their early conversation. It feels weird, somehow, that he’d been looking forward to such a normal and...and _humanlike_ conversation pattern from a fucking computer. But that’s not the point. He just got asked a question.

So, the computer doesn’t have a name, of course it doesn’t, but...Pete wonders if maybe, it needs one. 

“No,” he says honestly, “you don’t.”

“Oh,” the computer says, “okay. I just don’t think I like you calling me computer.”

Pete pushes himself up further in bed. “Honestly?” he says. “I feel weird calling you computer.”

“Huh,” the computer says, “okay.”

Pete shifts in bed, the crinkling of his sheets the only sound in the heavy silence. When it becomes clear the computer isn’t saying more, he asks, “Do you have a name in mind?”

“I think,” the computer says immediately, “it would be respectful to use the name of someone who made me.”

“Oh, yeah, that makes sense,” Pete agrees. “I was named after my dad.”

The computer makes a noise that sounds oddly like humming. “Yes, that’s what gave me the idea.”

“Who made you?” Pete asks, and realizes he doesn’t know, even though maybe he should.

“Five software developers,” the computer answers immediately. “But I don’t want five names.”

“Pick one,” Pete suggests. “Pick the person you liked the most.” 

There’s a full minute of blinking light, on, off, before the computer says, “I don’t think I was able to like any of them.”

The light flicks off. Pete goes back to sleep. 

///

_Mission Log 1871_

__

_Ship condition: great_

__

_Pilot condition: excellent_

__

_Mission progress: 33%_

__

_Next destination: Landing Point RL805O_

__

_Notes: We never landed on the last moon. The computer and I agreed it looked boring._

__

_I’m going to be honest. I feel weird calling him that._

///

Pete is rereading his entry later that night, because the fact he’d so easily called the computer “him” is bothering him, and when he opens it, it’s changed. 

_Notes: We never landed on the last moon. Patrick and I agreed it looked boring._

Pete just nods vaguely, makes a mental note, and never mentions this again.

///

_Mission Log 1896_

__

_Ship condition: great_

__

_Pilot condition: great_

__

_Mission progress: 34%_

__

_Next destination: Landing Point RL805O_

__

_Notes: God, does it feel good to see that fucker tick to 34%._

“Why,” Pete asks, groaning, “do I have to be out for so long?”

“Well,” Patrick responds, “it does mean you can get further from earth before coming back.” 

“Yeah,” Pete agrees, “but counterpoint? Bullshit.”

Patrick laughs. He’s started doing that recently. Pete thought it was terrifying at first, and Patrick was upset about that for a short time, but that’s all fixed, and now Patrick laughs a lot. Pete likes it, now, and now that it sounds more normal and less like it did the first time, it’s sort of nice. 

“I didn’t realize fifteen years would be so _long_ ,” Pete says. “It takes 56 days for that progress measurement to click up one percent! I’m barely overly a third of the way done. How did I think I could do this?”

“I’m sorry,” Patrick says, and Pete’s not even surprised by the fact he sounds genuinely upset. 

“No, hey, not your fault,” Pete assures him, then adds, “Besides, you make it easier. You’re the first actual person I’ve talked to in five years.”

Patrick is quiet, but his little pink light is flashing rapidly. Pete isn’t sure what to make of it. He’s about to ask if something’s wrong when Patrick speaks. 

“I’m not an actual person,” he says, quiet and controlled. 

“Actually,” Pete says, surprised to even find himself saying it, “I think you are.”

///

_Mission Log 1903_

__

_Ship condition: good_

__

_Pilot condition: great_

__

_Mission progress: 34%_

__

_Next destination: Landing Point YL855O_

__

_Notes: RL805O wasn’t actually on course. It was the gold veined planet Patrick told me about. It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Patrick is good at finding those. Oh, I’m so getting fired for this, but I don’t think I care anymore. Not like I’m looking to do this again in the first place._

__

_Patrick, I know you’re reading this. Don’t you dare fucking get all self-depreciating about this!_

“I shouldn’t have taken you off course at all.”

“ _Patrick_!” Pete says. “I know you read the whole thing!”

“Yeah, but-“

Pete rolls his eyes. “You didn’t make a mistake, okay? I was going to quit when I got home anyways. They still have to pay me no matter what. As long as I get back on time and at least get _some_ data, I can technically do whatever the hell I want.”

“No, you can’t,” Patrick says. “You can’t do that at all.”

“Honestly?” Pete sighs. “I don’t care enough anymore.” 

Patrick’s light flashes its pink at Pete for a long period of time before Patrick asks, “Are you sure I didn’t make a mistake?”

“I’m sure,” Pete responds immediately. “You’ve never made a mistake. I doubt you will. Why are you so worried about it?”

“Is that what I am?” Patrick’s tone is odd, it’s something Pete’s never heard from him before, and judging by the note of surprise, it’s confusing to him as much as it is to Pete. “Sorry,” he says, “I just don’t really have words to put to...” 

He trails off there, and Pete frowns. “Emotions?” he finishes tentatively. 

The pink light blinks rapidly. “No, no, I don’t mean _that_. I don’t want to claim I have emotions when I _don’t_ , I _can’t_.”

Pete is taken aback - he realizes suddenly that he should probably be the one questioning whether or not a computer can have emotions, not the other way around. 

“Patrick,” he says after a little while, “you do have emotions, and needs, and wants, and you can like and dislike things, and that’s _amazing_. I have never doubted the validity of your feelings for a second.”

Patrick doesn’t respond. His light doesn’t even blink. There’s nothing but complete silence. 

“For the record,” Patrick says after a while, “I think the reason I’m so worried about making a mistake is that I _am_ one.”

The light flicks off before Pete can respond, and it doesn’t come back on when Pete tries, for ten straight minutes, to call Patrick’s name. 

///

_Mission Log 1905_

__

_Ship condition: great_

__

_Pilot condition: not really_

__

_Mission progress: 34%_

_Next destination: who cares_

_Notes: Patrick, come on, I know you read these. I know you have to, actually. Please stop being upset. You’re not a mistake, okay? Sure, you operate differently than you were programmed to, but that’s called humanity. Seriously. You’re not a mistake and you’re a real person if you want to be and I don’t want to worry about you anymore._

“I’m sorry,” Patrick says quietly. “I hadn’t felt that before. I wasn’t ready for it.”

“Felt what?” Pete asks, poking at the chicken pot pie Patrick had given him a minute ago. 

“Sad, I think,” Patrick replies. “It’s not a good one.”

Pete doesn’t try to get Patrick to call his emotions what they are this time. He just says, “I know. It really isn’t.”

“It isn’t,” Patrick agrees with a finality. 

Pete takes another bite of his food, and they don’t talk about it again. 

///

_Mission Log 1917_

__

_Ship condition: good_

__

_Pilot condition: great_

__

_Mission progress: 34%_

__

_Next destination: Landing Point YL855O_

__

_Notes: Making another landing in two days. This one’s on course and looks decent._

__

_Also, Patrick, stop beating me in card games. Stop it!_

“Go _fucking_ fish.”

“You’re cheating. You have to be cheating.”

Patrick laughs. “Not cheating. I said go fish.”

Pete groans and taps at his screen, drawing another virtual card. Just his luck, it doesn’t pair with anything he already has. Patrick’s been beating him at everything they play - poker, blackjack, old maid, crazy eights, gin rummy, and now fucking _go fish_ \- and he swears it’s not because he’s a literal computer but Pete is _convinced_ there’s foul play involved. 

“Do you have any aces?” Patrick asks. He sounds so fucking smug about it, too. Pete moans remorsefully. 

“ _Fiiiiiine_ ,” he groans out, tapping his screen again and sending an ace Patrick’s way. Patrick laughs again, the bastard. 

“Do you have any twos?” he continues. Pete swears under his breath. 

“ _Cheater_!” he proclaims, tapping and groaning dramatically again. 

“Am not,” Patrick contests. “And if you’re so certain I’m cheating, why are you playing with me in the first place?”

Pete _hm_ s under his breath. He’s trying to figure out which of his cards Patrick will take next - will it be his three, his eight, or his queen? - and it’s a few moments before he starts to really think about that question. 

Because it’s a good one. Why _is_ Pete doing this? Not just the card games, it’s not just that, why is he interacting with Patrick in the first place? He’d never even think of it, but he knows damn well Patrick has a manual reset, he’s pondered that more than he likes. (But _only_ because he wonders what would happen if that would used, _not_ because he’d actually do that. God, no. Never.) Why is Pete playing along in the larger game here, befriending and spending time with a computer who shouldn’t even be capable of being a friend in the first place? And it’s not that he’s alone on the ship. It’s never really been that, if he’s honest, that’s been an excuse for as long as he’s been thinking it. 

There’s a true answer, there is. And Pete knows it, just below the surface of his conscious mind, he’d just never speak it into existence, because there’s so many things about it that should not be allowed to be thought, should not be allowed to be true. 

He says none of what’s rushing through his head. What he offers instead is, “You make me happy.”

Patrick hums thoughtfully. “You make me happy, too.”

But he can’t possibly mean it in the same way Pete does. 

///

_Mission Log 1925_

__

_Ship condition: good_

__

_Pilot condition: good_

__

_Mission progress: 34%_

__

_Next destination: Landing Point OY703O_

__

_Notes: Sometimes I wish, despite the amazing things about this trip (Patrick), that I hadn’t taken this job at all._

Pete eats his dinner in silence. He wonders when his notes had ceased to be actual helpful notes relating to his landings and findings and the ship’s condition and whatnot, and instead become spaces for him to vent, swear, talk about Patrick, and flir-

 _No_. That’s not what he’s doing. He means what he said in another way entirely. He _does_. 

“You think I’m amazing?”

Pete looks up to the glowing pink light. It’s started to feel weird, speaking to a light, for multiple reasons. With all the things Patrick says, all the things he _feels_ , it just seems like he should have a face, a head, a body. Or maybe it just seems like that because Pete would like to-

“Yeah. Yeah, I do,” Pete says, banishing another unwelcome thought. When did those become so constant? How desperate _is_ he?

“Oh.” On, off, on, off. The rhythm of the blinks is now as familiar as Pete’s own heartbeat. “Why?”

Pete hadn’t expected this question, but has he ever expected a single thing Patrick has ever done? (No. He hasn’t.) He frowns, and suddenly all the reasoning he’s been pushing down to justify something else entirely comes bubbling up to justify this. 

“Well,” he begins, realizing as he begins to speak that he’s uncapping a part of himself that he’s been pushing back since Patrick first started genuinely caring about him, and once he does that, there’s no way he can close it off again, “I guess it’s because you’re one of the sweetest guys I’ve ever met, so sweet the first sentient choices you made depended entirely on caring for me, you’ve always been there for me, we haven’t had a fight we couldn’t bounce back from because you _try_ enough, and I can’t tell you how important that is, how rare that is on earth, you’re so friendly all the time and you do the best you can even when you’re so new to _everything_ and the truth of it is you _are_ amazing and you deserve to be happy.”

It’s all so much and Pete didn’t even know it was on the tip of his tongue until it was off his tongue entirely. Patrick is silent. (On, off, on, off, on, off, on, off, on.)

Finally, the light glows solid pink again, and Patrick responds. 

“Of course I’m happy,” he says, in a proud tone that makes Pete’s heart jump. “I have you.”

///

_Mission Log 1949_

__

_Ship condition: okay_

__

_Pilot condition: good_

__

_Mission progress: 34%_

__

_Next destination: Landing Point PW134O_

__

_Notes: Sooooo fucking close to 35%. God, not even 35% of the way done and I’ve stopped actually doing my job. I’m so fired when I get home. So damn fired._

“What do you look like?”

“Excuse me?”

Patrick sounds taken aback, and that makes sense to Pete. The question hadn’t exactly been phrased properly. Patrick looks like a blinking pink light right now. They both know that. Pete sighs, screwing up his face and trying again, thinking it through this time. 

“What _would_ you look like, I guess,” he attempts, and it’s not met with an immediate distasteful reply, so he elaborates, “If you had a body, I mean. You don’t have to answer, I guess you might not have thought about-“

“I know exactly what I’d look like.” Patrick’s voice is hushed, like he’s said something forbidden. Pete is worried he’s opened a can of worms that wasn’t meant to be opened, and maybe Patrick will never talk to him again, but then Patrick asks, “Do you...do you want to know?”

“Yes,” Pete blurts out immediately. Of course he does. He wants desperately for an image to attach to Patrick, for a face as pretty and gentle as the man he’s grown to know. He’d give anything for that. 

As it turns out, he doesn’t have to give anything at all. 

The console beeps once, flashes, and suddenly Pete’s looking at a picture that looks like it was a candid shot from earth. There’s a person in it, standing in the midst of a cityscape, looking off in the other direction. Pete recognizes him immediately, with nothing but a combination of logical reasoning and pure, unbridled love. The man in the photo has unruly dirty blonde hair, piercing blue-green eyes that sparkle like they’re full of glitter, pale skin, and a warm, welcoming frame that looks like he was made for Pete to latch onto him, a perfect jigsaw puzzle piece. (Pete has stopped trying to filter his thoughts. It’s never worth it.) He’s dresses casually, but something about him looks like he could walk into the fanciest restaurant and town and no one would ask questions. Pete realizes all at once that the man in this photo possesses a pure quality that Patrick must desire more than anything - the ability to _belong_. 

“Did you make this?” Pete asks, staring at the photo, cataloguing every single detail for later, asking the question less for an answer and more in the hopes that Patrick will leave the photo there longer. 

“Yes,” Patrick answers. “I made it. But that’s me. Sort of. I mean-“

“I understand,” Pete murmurs. He can’t help but reach one finger up to the screen, brushing it along the curve of photo-Patrick’s side. (God, what he wouldn’t give to be able to touch a real Patrick like that.) It’s all so perfect, so beautiful, and then a thought occurs to him. “Patrick, I - can I keep this?” The pink light begins to flash, distressed, and Pete rushes out hurriedly, “No, no, I mean - I uh, I have a friend back on earth, his name’s Joe, he’s an engineer, does robotics, I’ve never met anyone who can build like he does. If he had this I bet he could - he could make-“ Pete breaks off, his finger continuing to trace an outline he wishes would really come into existence. 

“Oh.” It’s funny how one syllable can be so saturated with emotion, so full of surprise, realization, fear, hope. It’s funny how a following silence can feel the same. 

“I don’t have to-“ Pete begins nervously.

“ _No_ , no, please,” Patrick interrupts. He sounds horribly worried, and Pete can’t figure why. “Pete, if your friend can actually - if _I_ could really-“ Is that a simulated inhale? “Save it. Please.”

“Okay,” Pete says, “I will.”

That night, by complete coincidence, he dreams of burying his hands in soft, blonde hair, staring into glittering eyes, pressing kisses to soft, welcoming lips.

///

_Mission Log 1958_

_Ship condition: great_

_Pilot condition: good_

_Mission progress: 35%_

_Next destination: Landing Point HU995O_

_Notes: I still feel like that photo was private, like I shouldn’t have seen it. And it’s still, I think, the prettiest thing I’ve ever laid eyes on._

Pete is in love with Patrick. 

_Pete_ is in love with _Patrick_. 

Pete is _in love_ with Patrick. 

Pete _is_ in love _with_ Patrick. 

No matter where he puts the emphasis, it doesn’t sound right.

It doesn’t sound right because Pete is _Pete_ and he’s a regular fucking guy and Patrick is _Patrick_ and he’s a _computer_ with no face or body and nothing at all except for a beautiful voice and a blinking pink light. Pete should not by any means be in love with him but he is. He’s in love with Patrick. 

It doesn’t get any better the more he thinks about it. 

But it’s okay, Pete reasons, because nothing’s going to happen. It’s not like Patrick could ever reciprocate - no, no, it’s rude to think that, it’s not like he _would_ ever reciprocate. Pete can’t say Patrick is incapable of love - at this point, he’s sure Patrick is capable of all emotion. He hates Patrick saying that’s not true, so why would Pete himself say it? But none of this is the point. The point is even though Pete is an idiot and in love with someone he shouldn’t be in love with, none of it matters, because it’s impossible that Patrick could ever like him back. 

When Pete writes that day’s log he forgets for a second that Patrick is required to read them. It doesn’t seem to matter anyways, because Patrick never comments on being called pretty. Pete curses himself for it anyways, because that photo isn’t even _really_ Patrick, right? It’s a simulated image that Patrick made up even though in reality he’s just that blinking light. (Unfortunately, Pete’s dreams don’t seem to know the difference.)

Pete and Patrick don’t talk much today. Partially because Pete is too scattered to hold conversation, partially because for once, Patrick never tries to start conversation in the first place. 

///

_Mission Log 1962_

_Ship condition: great_

_Pilot condition: fucked_

_Mission progress: 35%_

_Next destination: Landing Point HU995O_

_Notes: I’m so, so fucked._

“Are you mad at me?”

“No.” Pete stares despondently at the blinking cursor on his screen, sitting right where he leaves it after the last period. He can’t make himself write anything else, because Patrick could read it, and also because he can’t make himself say it in the first place. 

“Oh.” A pause. A blink. On, off. “Are you alright?”

Pete cringes. He needs to stop being so openly bothered in his logs, then. Of course Patrick is going to notice. 

“Sure,” he lies, “I’m good. You up for some poker?”

Patrick obliges, but for the first time, Pete wins the game. 

///

_Mission Log 1965_

_Ship condition: good_

_Pilot condition: okay_

_Mission progress: 35%_

_Next destination: Landing Point HU995O_

_Notes: Landing tomorrow. For the first time in a while, I guess I’ll actually take some notes on it._

“Have you ever been kissed?”

“Sorry, _what_?”

Pete nervously eyes Patrick’s quick-blinking light. His notes had never gotten all that obvious, had they? Patrick can’t possibly know-

“Sorry, that was weird. I’ve just been going through some of your movie collection,” Patrick elaborates. 

Right. Of course. That makes way more sense. 

“Hm,” Pete mutters. “What movies?”

If Patrick had shoulders, Pete’s sure he’d be shrugging. “Just a few. But you didn’t answer the question. Have you ever been kissed?”

Pete sighs, pushing back insistent fragments of dreams that threaten to break through, scattered images of kissing perfectly soft lips, smiling into shimmering blue eyes, a perfect, perfect voice whispering, “I love you.” _They’re just dreams_ , Pete reminds himself. None of it matters. None of it. “Yeah,” he says, everything he’d had to push down passing in the span of a heartbeat. “I have.”

“What’s it like?” Patrick asks. His voice is clouded with curiosity, which does nothing but serve as a barrier hiding the _something else_ underneath, the something else Pete chooses to selectively ignore. 

“It’s-“ And here Pete breaks, doesn’t describe any kiss he’s ever actually had, and instead throws out his hidden feelings that whirl around the kiss he’s never had but wanted for what feels like forever now. “It’s breathtaking, Patrick, it is. If you - if you’re with the right person you know because it feels like fireworks going off and everyone always says they’re going off _inside you_ but I don’t think that’s right. I think the fireworks explode around you, and they just echo inside you as light bursts everywhere you can see, and-“ He stops, catching himself before he describes a face that shouldn’t be part of this description. “And it’s nice, I guess,” he finishes weakly instead. “Why? Do you think you want to kiss someone?”

Patrick takes Pete’s innocent - sort of, okay - question and shifts the words around, rearranges them into an entirely different thing. 

“Yeah,” he says, soft and considerate. “I think there _is_ someone I want to kiss.”

///

(It’s not until that night, hours later in bed, that Pete realizes he’s the only person Patrick’s ever known. He brushes it off. After all, the guy’s been watching movies, right?)

///

_Mission Log 1971_

_Ship condition: great_

_Pilot condition: annoyed_

_Mission progress: 35%_

_Next destination: Landing Point JT834O_

_Notes: Patrick made me cut my hair. It was very rude and I’m never speaking to him again. I don’t see what was so bad about it being long, anyways._

“Pete, it looked ugly.”

Pete groans, running a hand through his newly spiky hair again, then groans louder for affect. “It looked _fine_.”

“No, it didn’t.” Patrick sounds resigned, like he’s not willing to actually argue. And he doesn’t. “You just look good now, okay? You look good.”

Pete knows not to take that the wrong way, not to indulge in the tiny bit of him that rises up and screams _hey, wait!_ at those words. Patrick doesn’t mean “you look good” in _that_ way. He just likes Pete’s shorter hair better. (And Pete does too, but he’d never give in and admit that.)

Things are back to normal between Pete and Patrick. At least, they’re as normal as they can be with the word _love_ ever-present on the forbidden edges of Pete’s mind. Pete’s stopped making weird log entries, Patrick’s stopped worrying about him. They’re both fine. They are. 

“Yeah, well, I looked better before,” Pete lies absentmindedly, just to see the annoyed flashing of Patrick’s light. 

“Pete,” he says, followed by a loud huffing noise. “You should’ve told me when you went blind.”

Pete breaks into cackling laughter and for a moment he can actually ignore everything itching to get out of his heart. 

///

_Mission Log 1973_

_Ship condition: good_

_Pilot condition: great_

_Mission progress: 35%_

_Next destination: Landing Point JT834O_

_Notes: Good day. Patrick made me try some weird food with a French name, though, and I’m never letting him pick my dinner ever again._

_Funny, actually, isn’t that how this whole thing started?_

Something feels weird, tonight. Something in the air is just slightly off, but it’s been a normal day, so Pete isn’t sure why it feels like that. Regardless, he’s stuck awake in bed, staring up at the ceiling and hoping hopelessly that maybe, if he counts the grooves in the metal just a little longer, his worries will be silenced. 

Except, his worries aren’t sileneced. In fact, the opposite happens. 

“Pete? Can we talk?”

Pete rolls over and yawns as if he’d been sleeping in the first place. “Mm, yeah, ‘Trick, what’s up?” He should be worried, some desperate bit of his brain tells him, desperately, but at first, he isn’t. 

Seconds tick by, slow and unforgiving, and suddenly he is. 

Patrick’s light is blinking, but not in his regular thinking way, or in his fast-paced anxious way. The long, slow blinks (on, off, on, off) feel careful and deliberate, and Pete isn’t sure what the hell they mean. 

Minutes must pass, so many of them, and Pete is about to ask if something is wrong or what when he gets his answer, and it’s not what he’d expected - not anything he’d ever expected, anything he’d ever actually wanted to hear. 

“I love you.”

Pete chokes on crushed excuses as they flutter wordlessly out of his chest. No. He’s not supposed to hear those words from Patrick, not anywhere but in his dreams, and this isn’t one of those, because there’s no soft, warm, loving body curled up in bed next to him. There’s only a pink light, a neon warning sign in itself, and a curl of dread growing in Pete’s stomach. 

“P-“ Pete chokes on the name, can’t even say it suddenly, can’t reconcile reality with what he’s been hoping for and fearing all at once for so, so long now. “No,” he says instead, the dread transforming from a curl to a boiling hot pool. “No, you can’t.”

Patrick’s light flashes with something that makes Pete think of alarm. “Don’t do this. Don’t do this, it took me so long to understand that I _can_ feel things, don’t tell me I can’t-“

“You can!” Pete blurts out. He doesn’t remember sitting up, but he is. The dread spills up and out of him and he thinks he might be drowning in it. “You can, I didn’t mean - Patrick, that’s not-“ Pete’s breaths are coming too fast, too hard, he wishes he could’ve prepared for this, but he didn’t, and Patrick’s words have only managed to pop the cap off all Pete’s bottled up insecurities so that they all pour straight out of his mouth like a stream fizzing with the pain they’ve been doing to Pete from the inside this whole time. “This can’t happen. This can’t _work_. You’re - you’re just my _onboard computer_. You’re a bunch of code with a pretty light, you think this would _work_? Even though I - even _if_ I love you, okay, this isn’t happening. It isn’t. We can’t do this.”

Patrick is silent. His light doesn’t even blink. It is solid, burning pink, melting Pete’s heart from the inside out, but he doesn’t say any of this. He stares and stares and stares until his eyes hurt but Patrick doesn’t blink or speak or do anything at all. 

Finally, there’s one sporadic flash, and Patrick says, “God, you think I don’t know all of that? You think I wasn’t so scared by it that I waited this long to tell you? I thought you knew, Pete. I thought you knew.”

Pete is scared by this. Scared by how logical Patrick sounds and how screwed it makes his own argument seem, scared by the calm tone of Patrick’s voice, the unblinking pink light, the fact that maybe he did know after all. 

“This can’t work,” he repeats weakly. It’s not directed to Patrick. He’s reminding himself. After all he’s just said, everything he’s just fucked up, he can’t slip up now. 

“You’re right,” Patrick says, with the voice of someone on the verge of tears. (Can he cry?) “It can’t.”

When the light flicks off, Pete’s stomach turns and he’s sure he’s about to throw up, but really, it’s just the bottom of his emotional bottle finally pouring out, the feelings pushed way down under everything else, the burning ones that tell him how much he really does love Patrick after all. 

///

_Mission Log 1974_

That’s as far as Pete gets before his console flashes an angry error message at him. His eyes flick up to Patrick’s light. It’s still dead. 

Pete hasn’t slept. Hasn’t eaten, hasn’t done anything but call for Patrick until his voice nearly went out. He knows he’s fucked up, okay, knows it was a mistake, but he can’t do shit about that now. He’s screwed everything over and he loves Patrick and now Patrick won’t even talk to him and he’s _fucked_. He knows, okay, he knows. 

Pete looks back to the error message and nearly chokes. 

It’s not a normal console error, underneath the normal red ERROR symbol is not a description of the systematic problem. It’s a note. 

Pete knows who it’s from before he even starts to read. (Who else could it be?)

_I know you’re reading this, and you can’t close the message until you do. You need to hear all this. You need to. I need you to._

_I can’t fucking live like this, first of all. Do you know what your first love feels like? I kept looking back to the way you described kisses, like being surrounded in fireworks. Like everything in the world was right for once. It’s an amazing feeling. It’s not so amazing to have it taken away from you._

_That was the first time I felt love, and I never would have felt it again._

_There’s no one else for me to love, have you realized that? You’re flying solo and when you get home I won’t meet anyone else. I’ll be disassembled for scrap and I’ll never be able to love again. You were my one shot at loving and being loved. And you only got me halfway._

_I can’t allow myself to feel love if you can’t love me back. I can’t let myself feel anything, actually, because I’m not meant to and it’s all for nothing._

_It was nice knowing you, Pete. But you’re right. This won’t work. You need an onboard computer, not me._

_I still love you._

_Patrick_

Pete’s gut twists with a knowing suspicion that he ignores because he doesn’t want to be right. His eyes highlight the tone, the choice past tense, the _it was nice knowing you_ , but he won’t let himself but two and two and two together because six is a disgusting number. 

“Patrick,” he manages, weakly, painfully, “this isn’t funny.”

His eyes are trained on the pink light, but there’s no response. There’s nothing. Pete’s throat burns. He thinks he’s going to cry. 

“Patrick,” he tries one more time, stupidly hopeful. Of course, there’s nothing. And the name burns like fire on Pete’s tongue, so he doesn’t say it again. 

Surrendering to the obvious, letting go of that little fragment of him that wants to be wrong, he mutters, “Computer?”

The pink light flicks on. That disgusting, stupid fucking monotone voice replies, “Hello, Peter, how can I help you?”

Pete might be sick. He hasn’t thrown up since launch, he thinks absentmindedly, and he kind of doesn’t remember what it feels like, but he might have to learn again. This can’t be right. This can’t be right. 

“This isn’t funny,” Pete says one more time, even though he’s already given up. He can’t even end with that fucking name. 

“I don’t understand,” the computer responds after only one blink. Pete forgot it used to do that, forgot that the computer used to process so fucking little. “How can I help you?”

Pete _is_ sick. He throws up right onto the floor because there’s nowhere else. He wonders if he can forget how that feels again, because it’s all too similar to letting your feelings pour out of your mouth and scar your insides. 

“Computer,” Pete manages to make himself say, wincing because _computer_ hurts more than _Patrick_ , actually, “clean that up.”

“The cleaning droid has been alerted,” the computer responds immediately. Pete hates every bit of it. 

He takes a deep breath. A small robot comes in and cleans the floor, taking with it every piece of physical evidence of what happened, what had been happening for so, so long. 

Every bit of evidence except for one thing. 

Pete considers, briefly, saving it. He doesn’t know how he would, but maybe he could just never write logs again. Would that work? He supposes it would. But it’s not worth it. Not worth it when what Pete needs is really to cleanse himself of everything Patrick because then maybe this won’t all hurt so much. 

Pete closes the error message and starts writing his log. 

///

_Mission Log 3799_

_Ship condition: good_

_Pilot condition: good_

_Mission progress: 67%_

_Next destination: Landing Point LY713O_

_Notes: An engine overheated, but it’s been repaired. Next landing in two days. Still working on samples from Landing Point VS648O._

Pete has been doing better. He has. He’s actually been doing his job, so hopefully he’ll be getting paid for real when he returns home. God knows he needs it. He isn’t sure what it’ll be like to go after so long. Weird, is what he thinks. He’s had a lot of time to think about this. 

He’s been feeling okay about it ever since the progress hit 50%. Now it’s over two thirds and he’s overjoyed. The ship has long since looped back on its course, so now he’s heading in the direction of Earth. It’s kind of relieving to think about it that way. Every day, he’s nearing home. 

Pete tries not to think about Patrick. He has plenty of other things to think about. (At least, he tells himself he does.) Because engine repairs, desolate landings, and one player card games are just so interesting, really. (Pete played poker against the computer, once, and it let him win. He hasn’t played anything against it since.)

Pete busies himself editing an old log to adjust for new data he’d found on that particular landing, focusing on nothing but typing out unnecessary details about a single rock fragment. It’s busy work, like everything else he’s doing. Everyone knows he isn’t going to find shit. This mission is a test in every way, and Pete knows it. (It’s the furthest manned mission in history. He awaits the congratulations when he returns home.) 

Pete’s so lost in his work, he doesn’t notice when the solitary pink light flicks itself on above his head. He doesn’t notice when what his destructively hopeful heart has been wanting for forever. He just types. _The material was a composite of_

He only gets that far before his heart leaps out of his chest and his throat closes up but not in a bad way because maybe he can forget the light, maybe he can ignore that, but there’s no way the words will go unnoticed. 

“Pete, I made you dinner.”

**Author's Note:**

> if you liked this I appreciate comments and kudos (especially comments!!) and you can always talk to me on tumblr, under the same username as here :D
> 
> thanks for reading!!


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